Shades of Gray
by palmtreedragons
Summary: "If everyone thinks you're dead . . . then what happens to Roy Harper?" After going MIA, Team Arrow travels to Gotham City to find Roy and bring him home. But what happens when he doesn't want to leave? Arrow AU after 3x19. CW-verse Batman featuring Jason Todd and Bruce Wayne. *Temporary hiatus until I see Arrow season four for reference. Should be soon because it's on Netflix.*
1. Chapter 1

Roy concluded that life sucks. At least, his did.

It was nearly eight months since he left Starling. Since he last saw Oliver, Dig, Felicity, Thea. Since the Green Arrow died in prison. Eight months of shady hotel rooms and fake IDs and whatever he could get with the cold hard cash. Eight months of junk food and fast food and sometimes, when he couldn't find a steady job, no food. And it had been two months since he dropped his disposable phone Felicity gave him in a puddle. Two months since he last heard any of their voices.

Slumped behind the dingy counter, Roy couldn't help but think of how much his life sucked. He was being a wuss, he knew that. Oliver and Dig would tell him "Man up." Felicity and Thea, "It'll all be better soon. Just hang in there." But behind the counter at a grimy, disgusting gas station, Roy felt dispirited to say the least.

He was clad with the faded blue vest that designated employees (he didn't feel motivate enough to button it up, and his Starling Rockets tee showed through), some ratted jeans that needed a wash weeks ago, and a baseball cap Felicity gave him around a year ago. A lone figure was in the store; average height, leather jacket, ratty clothes, and a craving for soda and chips. He been in for at least twenty minutes, and couldn't choose between an energy drink or an icee. Roy sighed. One minute, fighting crime and being idolized. The next, he was in this hell-hole.

A tinkling of bells sounded, and a burly man with sleeve-tattoos sauntered in. Roy went back to scraping sticker-residue off the countertop. The rustling of the young man deciding his beverage, the heavy footsteps of the macho-dude, the hum of fluorescent lighting. Roy was really starting to feel the drowsiness that came with the night shift. What was it—two in the morning? Three?

And then there was a gun in his face.

Roy nearly smiled at the familiarity, something he was so used to seeing when he was surrounded by things that were so foreign. No surprise, it was the burly guy. His square jaw was jutted out, and he was grinning. "Cash register. Open it."

Roy cocked an eyebrow. "Building. Leave it."

This earned a snicker from the robber. "You got guts, kid. If ya don' wanna see 'em on a wall, I'd open that register." Roy sighed. Was this what normal life was like for a vigilante? A confused look crossed the thug's face. Most people were probably quaking in their boots by now.

Before Roy could make his move—grab the gun with his right hand, arm with the left, slam his head into the counter—there was a sickening _crack_ and the man was crumpling to the ground. As the large figure fell, Roy saw Beverage Guy with a gun in his hand. The butt of the gun and skull created the noise, a noise familiar also.

"In your opinion," the young man stated, "which is better. The red icee or the blue?"

Roy thought for a moment. "Red." With a confident smirk, Beverage Guy strode to the back of the store. He returned, a red icee, a pack of _Twizzlers_ , and a pack of _Camels_ in his hands. Roy busied himself with ringing up the items. "You're gonna take care of the body, right?" He wasn't sure what was making him so casual about this. Maybe it was years working with the Green Arrow. Maybe it was the fact that it was pitch black outside and Roy was just too tired to deal with any of this.

"Yup," said Beverage Guy. He took the _Camels_ from the thin plastic shopping bag and whipped out a cigarette. Placing one between his lips with the ease of a professional, he slid out another one. It was thrust at Roy. "Wan' one?" he mumbled around the smoke.

Roy shook his head politely, not feeling like delving into that pain in the arse of a habit. "You seem to know what you're doing with that gun."

"And you didn't flinch," pointed out the stranger. Roy grinned. He couldn't be Arsenal, the Green Arrow's sidekick anymore. But that didn't mean he had to give up the life of a vigilante, did it?"

Roy extended a hand. "I'm Roy Harper."

The hand was met with a black glove as Beverage Guy shook it. "Jason Todd. But here in the streets of Gotham, people call me the Red Hood."

Roy sighed dejectedly. "Dang it. That was gonna be my name." Jason laughed. Up close, Roy noticed a few graying hairs close to his hairline. The guy couldn't have been any older than he was.

"How about we share these _Twizzlers_ and brainstorm what crooks will call you as you punch them into next Sunday?" Roy thought for a moment. Stay here, in this desolate gas station that paid him minimum wage, or go with this gun-clad stranger and fight crime. Roy threw off the employees vest and walked towards the front door.

"Hey, Harper?"

Roy turned around. Jason stood, hands in his pockets and unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, and looked to his feat. He was looking at the body. "Oh, yeah."

"You get the legs, I'll get the arms." Jason stuck the pack of smokes in his pocket, the _Twizzlers_ in his waistband, and held the icee in one hand. He bent down and grabbed one of the man's wrist with his free hand.

"Why do I have to grab the feet?" Roy sighed.

"Because I'm the Red Hood, and the Red Hood doesn't grab people's feet."

"Did you just refer to yourself in third-person?"

* * *

Sitting on the hood of Roy's car (one of the only things he still had), he chewed on his _Twizzler_ thoughtfully. "I thought Batman took care of Gotham's criminals."

"He does," replied Jason coolly, swapping between icee and cigarette. "He catches 'em and throws 'em in jail so they can get out again."

Roy glance over at his new acquaintance. "And what do you do?"

"I give them what they deserve." They lapsed into silence. Jason set the cup of flavored ice down and laid back, staring at the night sky. "Nothin' more romantic than a skeezy hotel parking lot."

"Hey," cried Roy playfully, laying back also. "This skeezy hotel is where I live. It's bad, and small, and dirty, and roach-infested, and. . . . What was the point again?"

Jason rolled his eyes. "I still don't get what a guy like you's doin' in Gotham."

"A guy like me?" Roy echoed.

Jason shrugged, breathing out a puff of smoke. "I dunno. You're too nice. Too light. Stay in Gotham too long, and that light'll go out."

Roy took a moment to contemplate this. He had heard rumors about Gotham. About its darkness and its corrupt leaders. "I can't go back home."

"Can't, or won't?" asked the Red Hood.

"Can't."

In the darkness, Roy could feel Jason frown. "Yeah. Me too." Jason wasn't Ollie. He wasn't Dig, or Thea, or Felicity, or Lauryl. He wasn't anything from Starling. Starling was the darkness compared to Barry and his team at Central City. And yet Starling was only a shade of gray compared to Gotham. "You won't last long out here if you don't do what you need to."

"I can hold my own," Roy protested.

Jason clicked his tongue. "I'm talking about killing, Harper. You ever killed before?"

"Yeah." Roy bit his lip. That had been under the Mirakuru, not of his own will. If it came down to it, could Roy take a life? "But you're right. I need to learn to survive Gotham."

Jason sat unright. His hair was sticking up in the back, making him look like a wide-eyed, happy teenage boy. Not a killer. "You askin' to be my sidekick?"

Roy huffed. "I'm not going to be anyone's sidekick."

"I did save your life back there."

"You did not," Roy protested. "I had it all under control."

"Mhm," Jason hummed. "Well, if you don't want to be my sidekick, you could always be my damsel in distress."

Roy blindly reached over and slapped Jason in the chest. The man beside him chuckled. No, Jason wasn't remotely close to anything Starling. But Roy suppose he wasn't anything Gotham, either. Maybe that would change.

* * *

 **So, I think that went pretty well! This is just a one-shot, but if people like it, I might continue this.**

 **A/N #1: I haven't read any of Red Hood and the Outlaws. I merely know that these two are partners in crime at one point, and that they seem like a pretty rad duo. I guess there's RoyxJason if you squint hard enough. Also, there isn't much fanfiction with these two, so I thought I'd contribute.**

 **A/N #2: This is my interpretation of what happens after 3x19 in Arrow. I haven't seen past this episode, so sorry if there's anything wrong here. Also, I'm simply basing Jason off of my knowledge of Batman, not anything from Red Hood and the Outlaws.**

 **Stay awesome!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! Quick A/N: this chapter takes place after the finale for season 3. A few minor spoilers in the first few paragraphs (nothing you couldn't infer) then the rest is totally AU. Hope you guys enjoy!**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**

* * *

They found Roy four months later.

Al Sah Him was no more, and neither was Ra's Al Ghul; Merlin was in Nanda Parbat, hopefully not using the league for his own evil deeds; Thea was now Speedy; Dig was still cross (as were most of them), but willing to accept continuing their crusade.

And Oliver was doing the most unexpected thing: offering to leave with Felicity and not turn back. To live a _normal_ life. And she agreed.

On one condition.

"We lost track of Roy a few months ago," Felictiy stated with a mix of worry and apology in her voice. _There was always one more condition_ , Oliver thought somewhat bitterly. But if Roy was in trouble, that was a very important condition. Felicity was already at her desktop, hands a blur on the keys. A map was displayed, and Oliver moved to stand behind her. "This was his last location. Oliver, we haven't heard from him in _months_. I would have investigated, but between you and Thea and the league. . . . If something happened to him—"

Oliver set a firm hand on Felicity's shoulder. "Roy's strong. He's still alive, and I'm going to find him and bring him home."

"Promise?" Felicity asked, trying not to show the tears beginning in her eyes.

"Promise."

* * *

So that's where Oliver was headed. Well, Oliver, and Thea, and Dig, and Felicity. He insisted on going alone, and like every time he gave an order, the three blatantly ignored him. Dig came because "he cared about Roy." Felicity insisted that someone needed to operate the technology to find Roy, whatever they may use. And Thea simply told Oliver: "I will kick your ass into next Thursday if you tell me one more time to stay." Oliver backed off.

Standing on the sidewalk, Oliver observed Gotham City. A constant overcast painted the sky, a mix of bad weather and air pollution that made the air smell bittersweet. Within five minutes of their being there, a gunshot already rang out. Thea started forward, but her brother held her back.

"Let me go." She struggled against the hand on her arm.

"Thea," Oliver began, letting go. "If we hunt down every bad guy in the city, it would take days—weeks, even. This is Gotham. Things are different here."

"So we have to hide from the criminals?" Thea asked crossly.

Diggle sighed. "And from the vigilantes. Rumor has it the 'Batman' doesn't like strangers in his city."

Felicity eyed a shady looking passerby warily, subconsciously moving closer to Oliver. "I seem to be getting that feeling a lot here."

They didn't know where to start. The last signal given off from Roy's phone was by a deserted street corner, and all they found there were some spare parts. Felicity bent down, inspecting them. "Someone must've looted the phone for anything worth money. This was Roy's, but clearly—"

"It isn't a lead," Oliver groaned. He took a few steps further into the alley, lifting his head to inspect the rooftops above. A glimmer of red caught his eye—

"Oliver!" Diggle shouted, chasing after the already gone man. Felicity and Thea chased after, Thea keeping her pace slow enough to stick with the technician.

Oliver climbed agilely to the roofs, eyes locking onto the figure. Dark clothes, bright red headgear. It was a hunch—less than—but it was something. If anything, some low-life might have chanced upon their young vigilante.

The stranger was fit, trained, and fast. He leapt from roof to roof like one would step over a puddle. It wasn't until they reached the shore, where the buildings abruptly stopped, that the figure was cornered. He stood on the edge, slowly raised his hands in surrender, and turned around. Oliver watched closely. It was a criminal, alright; he knew what to do when caught. He knew how to surrender.

Quicker than Oliver could comprehend, the stranger's hand was to his waist, and a gunshot sounded behind Oliver. Oliver furiously turned to Diggle, firearm pointed to the crumpling forgive. The Green Arrow raced to the ledge, grabbing a handful of leather jacket before the man went falling three stories down.

Within minutes Thea and Felicity were on the scene. The man with the red helmet lay panting, a hand pressed to his bloody side. He was as silent as Oliver and Dig, who would no doubt argue on this topic later. Oliver didn't want the man harmed, and Dig would insist he saw a threat.

"Who's that?" Felicity asked between gasps.

Thea's eyes narrowed with disappointment. "It's not him, Ollie."

"I know," Oliver said slowly. He turned to the man. "But this man might know where he is. Take off the helmet."

Slowly and deliberately, the man raised his hands to his helmet, clicked a few latches, and tugged it off. A silence fell as they observed the face. Dark hair, suspiciously graying in the front. A few healing cuts, maybe from glass. Tightness from pain.

Dig was the first to break the silence. "You're just a kid."

The young, innocent seeming facing suddenly hardened to granite. The man—or boy, perhaps—glared at Dig. "I ain't no kid."

Oliver quickly put an end to their abrasive discussion with a raised hand. He turned back to the man. "We're just looking for someone. We don't wan't any trouble."

"Is that why Baldy shot me?" Dig gave Oliver his _If you don't shut him up, I will_ look.

Oliver sighed. "His name is Roy Harper. He might be in trouble."

Something in the kid's face changed. It was too slight for Thea or even Dig to pick up, but Oliver knew that look. He was hiding something; he knew Roy Harper. Blue eyes darted to Thea, then Felicity, then "Baldy," and back to Oliver.

"Don't know him."

Dig raised his gun again. "Don't play games, _kid_. Start talking."

Oliver gave his friend a warning glance. "Diggle."

"Oh," the young man said between stiffened gasps. His wound was affecting him more than he let on. "Is this the whole Good Cop, Bad Cop routine? It ain't gonna work. My partner will be here any minute, and when he does—"

"What partner?" Diggle stepped a few feet forward, gun still trained on the surprisingly chatty figure. Thea and Felicity watched, ready to pull the man back if he were to fire. They never got the chance to, because a red arrow hit the dark metal, sending the gun flying from Diggle's grasp. The four Starling natives immediately looked to where the arrow originated. Crouched on the rooftop corner several yards away was an archer.

His red uniform was hoodless and darker than Speedy or Arsenal's ever was. But he still had the mask that covered his eyes, and he still had his bow. "Let him go."

Thea and Felicity let out a gasp of relief as they saw their longtime friend, unharmed and alive. Dig was still stunned from the shot, and Oliver was eyeing Roy with confusion. Something was wrong. There was a hardness in Roy's eyes, something that wasn't Arsenal. "Roy?"

"That partner," the injured man finished. Though everyone heard this, nobody turned to face him. They were too transfixed on Roy as he loaded another arrow, and aimed it at Oliver's chest.

"Let. Him. Go."


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! Quick** _important info about future chapters:_

 **Keeping with the Arrow (and occasionally Flash) tradition of showing both the present and fitting flashbacks, I decided I would do the same. To put it sinply:** _odd chapters take place between when Roy met Jason (Chapter 1) and when Team Arrow finds him (Chapter 2). Even chapters go from that point onward._ **You might say odds are the "flashbacks" and evens are the "present." I hope this doesn't confuse too many readers. I just thought this would be the best way to convey the story.**

 **On another note, thank you guys so much for your support! I love Roy Harper and Jason Todd as characters, and them together in what little I've seen of Red Hood and the Outlaws. Once again, thanks you guys! I love your comments!**

 **Stay awesome!**

 **~palmtreedragons**

* * *

Things had started out slow, then escalated all too quickly.

Jason offered Roy a place at his "safe house." It was a small, one living room, one bedroom, one bathroom apartment in the slums of Gotham. Jason grandly swung open the door, and Roy was met with scarcely any furniture, mold in the sink, and no order. Clothes, ammunition, firearms, and fast food wrappers littering every surface. Roy found it strangely homely; he had, after all, lived in an RV and on the streets for most of his life. Jason kicked off his boots, slid out of his jacket, and sprawled himself out on the couch. An arm was slung over his eyes, and he muttered something about sleep. Before Roy could even close the door, Jason was out cold.

It was early morning, probably four or five. Light was just beginning to filter in through the battered blinds drawn over the lone window, casting everything in thin, pale light. Perfect for inspecting. Roy was grateful for the place to stay, but when a guy who knows how to kill wants to be friends, it was often wise to know who the guy was. All Jason would supply was his name, and that didn't get Roy very far.

With careful footing, Roy crept over a pile of discarded potato chips and headed to the small coffee table in the middle of the room. It held a pack of smokes—the ones Jason bought hours earlier—and a folded, bent, and aged photograph. Roy lightly picked it up, turning it over in his fingers and working it open.

It was a picture of a young boy with dark hair and a light smile. Next to him a middle-aged man with black, disheveled hair, an old tee-shirt, and a small but sincere smile on his lips. Another boy, roughly Jason's age now, was in the picture: equally dark hair and grin bright enough to light the room. Roy smiled to himself, turning the old relic over. On the back was neatly inscribed in pen: _Bruce and his boys._

Jason sighed in his sleep, turning over to his side. Roy went still, scarcely breathing for fear of waking the man. After a moment or two, Roy gave one final glance back to the photo. Now he had at least some form of leverage, but also another question: Bruce. Feeling the photo would give Roy no further information, he put it in its original place beside the smokes.

The rest of the house—if it could be called that—was clean. Well, not _clean_. It was absolutely filthy. (Roy figured his hygiene standards were raised after all his time with the once-rich Queens.) But, to Roy's dismay but not surprise, the three rooms held nothing suspicious, if you weren't counting the fifty-some-odd guns. Roy meandered about, casually wondering the story behind some of the objects: a faded and torn Wayne Enterprises shirt that belonged in the trash, but seemed more treasured than the rest of his clothing; a small R-shaped badge that used to be sown onto a piece of clothing or some uniform; a red helmet sitting polished and menacing on top of a pile of armor.

There was nothing else personal in the entire household. Plain clothes, weapons, and half- or whole-eaten food. Nothing else to give him clues—except the hidden wall.

Roy almost missed it. He was in the bedroom (which was simply a bed and a literal pile of shirts and jeans) when he was stepping around a discarded book. Losing his footing in the semi-darkness, he instinctually slammed out a hand to stop his fall. It collided with the wall, sending a small _thud_ echoing through the apartment. Roy winced, ears straining for any sign of Jason awakening; after next to no sound for several minutes, Roy assumed he was in the clear. But it wasn't Jason's possible awakening bothered him. The wall had the hollow sound Roy knew belonged to a trick wall. Giving it a few minutes of prodding, it slid open.

Roy took a few steps back, biting his lip in confusion and focus. A typical board that people without Felicity's technological skills used for tracking something—or some _one_. A red string ran back and forth across the pinned up newspaper clippings and photographs. Roy eyed a newspaper article about the bat vigilante of Gotham; next on the red string was the Batman and his sidekick, Robin; a few down the line was the Joker being thrown in Arkham, the metal institution of Gotham; merely days later he had already escaped; the clippings now focused on a vigilante with called the Red Hood—

A red hood. A red _helmet_. Roy glanced over his shoulder, where the inanimate helmet was glaring back. Roy studied the articles about the vigilante closer now. Most claimed he was a terror to Gotham—and with fairly good reason. Destruction of private property, theft, arson, murder. . . .

But some—the lowlifes of Gotham that called the streets their home—claimed otherwise. _"He got some of the dealers who hung around kids out of the streets,"_ one clipping claimed. Another: _"He murdered people the Batman would only shove in Arkham. Why? So they could escape?"_

Roy followed the string further. It followed the same topics: Batman, Robin, Joker, Red Hood, and—

The very last photograph, the one where the red string ended, was of genius billionaire Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne, in a nice suit, firm look, and styled hair. But all Roy could see was the middle-aged man in an old tee-shirt with dark, disheveled hair and small smile. All he could see was Bruce in the photograph with his boys.

And then the epiphany knocked the breath out of Roy. Jason was the young, smiling boy. The boy with a father and a brother and a good home. The boy who became a killer.

Roy didn't even have to turn; he could feel the eyes from the doorway trained on his back. He could feel Jason smile. "I knew you were a smart one."

* * *

What followed, Roy found, was severely anticlimactic. He stared for a momet longer at the mess of photographs, and then turned to Jason. What could he say? I can explain everything?

Jason shook his head, cutting off anything Roy could muster up. "Trust," he said simply. He was one for theatrics—for making you wait for his point. "That's the problem."

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying I should trust you?"

Jason scoffed, peeling himself from where he languidly leaned against the frame of the doorway. "Hell no. I saying you can't trust anyone. That's the problem. For all you know, the guy you meet at the gas station could be a serial killer." He was smiling now. Oliver taught Roy that smiling was a criminal's means of deflecting attention. Oliver also indirectly taught Roy that smiling meant you were pushing a hurting feeling deep down inside you. Roy couldn't tell which approach Jason was using. "If I wanted you dead, Harper, you'd be dead already." With that, Jason left the doorway. Roy didn't doubt that.

Ultimately, Jason went back to sleep on the couch. Roy half wondered why he wasn't sleeping in the perfectly good bed, but he suddenly felt tired. The tired that came after a hard night's work, when the adrenaline rushes out of your blood and left you feeling like you were lined with lead. Roy took one of the two rickety folding chairs in the living room and stationed it facing the couch. He wasn't letting Jason out of his sight.

Jason was right. He was right that he could kill Roy easily—and that was why Roy didn't trust him. Jason was right about that, too. Roy didn't trust Jason. He found that he couldn't trust anyone. He could trust his friends in Starling, but God knows what chaos he'd create if he went back. If "The Arrow" was actually alive.

At some point Roy could not remember, he slipped into sleep. The last thing he could remember that night was thinking: Jason was right. Roy didn't trust him. But a gut feeling told him to trust that boy in the photograph with the smile and the dad and the brother. Because, when it came down to it, Jason was Roy's only choice.


	4. Chapter 4

Roy was smart.

He knew how to handle a dangerous situation. Oliver taught him early how to size up an opponent, how to plan strategies on the dime, how to survive when every sign told you you couldn't. Diggle had a gun pointed to Roy's "partner's" chest, and Roy disabled him. But Roy was smart. He knew Diggle had a gun in his waistband (and two strapped to his ankles, and a tazer in his pocket), and he knew Diggle would not hesitate to fire. Even if the target was Roy himself. So, like Oliver always told Roy, when you couldn't take down your enemy, you use leverage.

So Roy pointed his arrow at Oliver.

Diggle would shoot Roy, taking the chance of his life. But he would never risk Oliver's. Oliver couldn't help but stare at Roy, across the rooftop and past the bow. He was dangerous. He was going to shoot. Oliver glanced at Dig, who was frozen to the spot. His arm was still outstretched to the wounded stranger, hand pointed to shoot a gun that was no longer there. Dig hated Oliver's unspoken command—that much Oliver could obviously tell when he looked Diggle in the eyes. Slowly, Diggle purposely moved his hand to his waist. He procured a gun, and tossed it onto the ground. Roy didn't move, and his eyes watched Diggle with every movement. He knew where Diggle kept his weapons; there would be no way for him to keep a weapon hidden. Everyone watched as Dig pulled out every weapon and tossed it, agonizingly slow.

Roy knew Felicity, Thea, and even Oliver would not shoot him, unless they were provoked. Slowly, Roy's new friend lifted himself from the ground. The bullet wound was streaming red through the leather jacket, matching the helmet in his one hand. The other was clutching his injured side.

"You okay?" Roy asked. It wasn't to Diggle, or Oliver, or even Thea. It was to the stranger.

"Peachy," came the reply, just as witty and sarcastic as before, as if he wasn't just shot. The boy with the helmet was injured but armed, and as long as Roy's arrow was pointed at Oliver, no one dared to make a move. Oliver quickly realized that this was all planned, that Roy had perfect control over the situation. He was trained by Oliver himself, after all. He was smart. Dark, dangerous eyes still trained on Oliver, never leaving his superior's eyes, Roy swiftly turned. He leapt off the rooftop, and his partner followed the action a moment after. The two swiftly and wordlessly left, leaving Oliver and his friends— _Roy's_ friends—in stunned silence.

* * *

"What the hell?" Diggle breathed for the hundredth time. Oliver stared at the table's grimy, sticky surface. They had managed to find a shady pub a block away. None of them had food on the mind; they needed to regroup.

Thea slowly shook her head in disbelief. "That wasn't him."

"Of course it wasn't," Felicity agreed quickly. She was nervously fingering the glass cup in front of her. "Maybe it was Mirakuru, or Vertigo. Or something else entirely. Gotham has as many weird villains as Starling City—if not more. It could be—"

"Doesn't matter what it was." Diggle's voice was firm. "That was Roy out there, conscious or not."

"We need to find him."

Diggle rolled his eyes. "Thea, he tried to _kill_ Oliver."

Felicity's voice was just as firm as Dig's. "So, what? We leave? We just go home and forget about him?"

"That's exactly what we do." The bickering stopped immediately as they heard Oliver speak for possibly the first time since the rooftop. The Green Arrow continued to stare at the table, his mind millions of miles away.

"You can't be serious," Thea protested, nearly knocking over her forgotten drink as she leaned forward. "We can't just leave."

"I promised to find Roy. We did."

Felicity was furious, and obviously not letting Oliver think he was going to win. "No, Oliver. You promised to find him and _bring him home_."

"But what if he doesn't want to come back?" Diggle suggested. He was regaining his composure, trying to figure out their next move as Oliver was. Thea and Felicity were irrational, planning on instinct and emotion. It was up to Dig and Oliver to make the reasonable calls. Both doubted the women would listen to them, though.

Oliver began to block out the ensuing argument. He was thinking about what their next move was. He was thinking about the note in his pocket.

* * *

Thea and Felicity had ultimately won. Down the street a ways was a small motel. If Oliver wasn't as skilled as he was, he would have feared for his life. This was Gotham, where a day without a dozen deaths was unusual and it was manners to set your pistol you always carried on the table. No one lived on Gotham without owning a weapon of sorts—no one could survive without one.

It was dark. The midnight light from the moon and stars was blotted out by the smoggy atmosphere, leaving the sky a pearly gray. Oliver was alone; his friends were sleeping, completely unaware of their leader's nightly mission. They couldn't know about the note Oliver found taped to the red arrow that disarmed Diggle. They couldn't know about the rooftop location, hastily scribbled in Roy's handwriting. They couldn't know, because that was all Oliver knew. An address. It was too risky to bring his friends—his only family—along.

He came in his suit. He felt that if he were to be forced into a fight, it would not only be easier than if he were in street clothes, but his identity would be safe. It was far easier to sneak above the city's streets in a mask.

The building was like any other: dilapidated, old, falling apart piece by piece. It was on the edge of the slums, and just a few blocks away Oliver could see skyscrapers The city had a strange sort of beauty from the rooftops. It vaguely reminded him of home. His sense of nostalgia was interrupted by a dark, shadowy figure. Oliver turned, and he was simply there. The fact that the stranger had surprised Oliver unnerved him; he was out of his element. Gotham was no Starling City.

"I trust you know about the red-hooded man, and the red archer," Oliver assumed, skipping the introductions. His voice was altered through his equipment, making him completely anonymous. He didn't leave Starling without his hood and his toys. With those, all people could tell was that he was a man. Looking at the dark figure, completely black and almost indistinguishable from the dark sky, Oliver realized he wasn't entirely sure about his confronter's identity. He was even more nameless than Oliver. The figure moved slightly, taking a few steps closer. They were still several yards apart, but Oliver's hand instinctively tightened around his bow.

The black cape billowed around the dark figure. "Yes."

Oliver was distantly shocked that the figure disguised his voice, too. Not many people did that, and it was only another sign of his skill. The short answer annoyed Oliver, though. He wanted answers. "I received a note. I assume it was passed to my friend by you?"

"Yes."

Oliver frowned. "What do you want?"

He could've sworn he heard a chuckle from the figure, but perhaps it was simply the air. "I want the same as you. My friend has gone rogue, also." Oliver looked to his bow. He could draw an arrow in seconds, but it was more likely than not that the figure was wearing armor. "We're in the same boat, Oliver Queen."

Oliver didn't care about the armor. He drew the arrow anyway, the string taut as he pulled it back. "You know my name?" asked Oliver, his voice sounding gravely and low with the disguise.

The knowledgeable man only held out a hand, as if to calm the archer. "If I meant any harm, I would have attacked you. You, and your friends five blocks from here."

 _He even knows where they are_. In some twisted way, it seemed as if the figure wanted to help. But there was the unspoken threat below the statement; he knew where his friends were, exposed and unexpecting. Oliver thought a long, hard moment, considering the proposal. It seemed like he was their only choice besides going back. Was it worth it?

"And what do I call you?" Oliver asked. He wasn't sure if the coldness of his voice carried through the voice-changing-tech.

"You can call me . . . Batman."

* * *

 **Batman! Woot! Well, what do you guys think? What do you think will happen? I love your feedback, including constructive criticism. Note that I have not seen season four yet, so unless I manage to start it soon, this might branch off from the storyline. See you guys later! Thanks for the support!**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	5. Chapter 5

The first time Jason asked Roy to shoot, he froze.

The two had gotten along amicably since Roy had learned his companion's identity. He didn't ask questions. Roy guessed anything he asked Jason would be deflected easily; he was a master at lying and manipulation. Trying to force him to open up was an impossible task.

So Roy just didn't ask. He didn't care, really. He liked Jason. He liked the "screw the world" attitude and the blatant disregard for rules. He liked not having to take orders, to just do what he wanted, when he wanted, and how he wanted. Oliver's secrecy and vague orders grinded against Roy's nerves nonstop. Jason, on certain topics, was an open book.

It was less than a week since their meeting that Gotham took notice of their newest vigilante—or thug, depending on who you asked. Jason pouted for nearly a whole day when one news line called Roy "Red Hood."

Roy, who was leaned back in a chair at the time, packing away his gear, only shrugged. "It's not like it's gonna stick. _You're_ the Red Hood. I just _wear_ a red hood."

Jason frowned, looking over the newsprint once more. "You better not steal my spotlight, kid."

"Kid?" cried Roy indignantly. "You're no older than I am." Jason shrugged. It mildly bothered Roy that he was called _kid_. Oliver called him kid. Diggle, Felicity—even Laurel and Officer Lance, occasionally—called him kid. And it bothered him more that he hadn't thought about them in days. His new life in Gotham was hard; what time he wasn't sleeping, he and Jason were hunting down crime bosses and keeping criminals in check. He didn't have much time to think, and he didn't really need to with Jason. The guy was easy. He didn't have to wonder about him lying about some earth-shattering revelation. Or maybe he did. Roy didn't like to dwell on that thought.

It was shortly after that Gotham chose its name for the archer: The Red Arrow. He wasn't Speedy, or Arsenal, or Green Arrow's sidekick. He was his own act now. He and the Red Hood. The two were side by side, day and night. Roy was quick to learn the heads of crime. Which were drug lords, and which were crime bosses. Which stole and embezzled, and which sold drugs to and trafficked kids. The best, and the worst. And Jason made sure to keep every one in line, no matter the method.

One night, perhaps a month into Roy's stay, they were hunting down some creep who was selling pills to some young teens. Jason particularly hated those kinds of creeps. The guy was in the middle of a drug deal with some kids when the two found him. Roy shot a warning arrow into the wall, only a handful of feet from the guy's head. The kids scrambled, and the creep took off running. He was a fool to think he could outrun the two.

Jason knew the streets of Gotham better than anyone, and that made it easy to force the man into a dead-end. There was nowhere to run. Roy pulled an arrow back, waiting for Jason to make his move. Now was when he and his intimidating red helmet scared the criminal into abiding by Jason's rules. A little rough housing, a few threats, and they were on their merry way. Roy was only backup in case the creeps ran.

But tonight, things were different. Jason stood by Roy's side, unmoving. His helmet made him seem nerve-wracking and intimidating even to Roy. "Finish him."

Roy looked at the man. Beady eyes, twitchy hands, stinking of some kind of drug. He eyed his arrow, pointed at the man. The arrow he never fired. And suddenly a memory of stabbing a cop with an arrow's shaft came to mind. The memory of when he couldn't control himself. The only person he'd intentionally killed. "What?"

"Finish him." The voice of his friend echoed through the mask. It seemed harsh, indifferent.

Roy watched the man. He looked at his friend. Was he even a friend? Roy didn't really know Jason. For what felt like the billionth time since he met the strange vigilante, he wondered exactly what he was capable of. Jason sensed Roy's hesitation, realizing he wouldn't let the arrow fly. In one fluid motion, he pulled his gun from the holster by his hip, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

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Roy felt hollow. He had never watched brains splatter onto brick walls. He hadn't ever seen a figure slump to the ground, half his head gone. He couldn't get the ringing of the gun's fire in an enclosed space out of his ears.

And he couldn't look at Jason.

When they were back at Jason's crappy apartment, and Jason took off his helmet, Roy couldn't force himself to look at the man. He couldn't see the young face and the tossled hair and the light freckles that made him look like a kid. All he could see was the coldness in his eyes. The complete absence of regret after killing a man.

Roy stared at his gloved hands. He hadn't killed the man directly, but he felt dirty. He felt wrong. Oliver had killed plenty of people, Roy knew. But who did Oliver kill first? Did he feel like Roy now, full of regret? Or did he react like Jason Todd? Then another thought came to mind: Did Jason ever feel this way? There had to be a first kill.

And that was the first question Roy asked him in a while. "How many people have you killed?" he whispered, staring at his hands. It was completely dark in the small room, and Jason was only a moving shadow. He was going through his routine of disarming himself, cleaning the blood from his weapons and clothes, and prepping for whoever they would harass tomorrow.

Jason barely shrugged, his shoulders tense. "I dunno. Lost count."

Roy fell silent. He didn't say another word as he watched Jason drift off into sleep. He didn't say anything as he packed up his very few things and left. He didn't say anything as he hit the streets, not knowing where he'd go. Not Starling. Maybe not even Gotham. The chances of running into Jason were very high in the city.

So he pulled his jacket tighter around him, shrugged off his backpack, and slumped into a bench by a bus stop. He probably had a few bucks left, enough for a ticket to the first city the bus went to. Roy wasn't picky at this point. Anything but Gotham—Jason was right when he said it changed people.

Roy nearly nodded off when movement caught his eye. His first thought was the bus, and his second was an attacker. But it was only a young cop. His uniform was not of the GCPD (Roy had grown to memorize the Gotham policemen's uniforms when hiding from them). The man's hair was a rumpled mess, and his blue eyes were dancing despite their seeming weariness. But it was the toothy grin that made Roy realize he'd seen that face before. Much, much younger in an old photograph. It was unmistakably the boy that was next to Jason and Bruce Wayne. Jason's brother.

"Is this seat taken?"

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 **What'd you guys think? I couldn't help myself—I just had to bring in Dick Grayson! As always, your support and reviews help me so much when writing! Thanks you guys!**

 **A/N: Next week is my very first week of band camp! (Any band geeks out there?) Anyway, it's roughly nine hours, five days a week. My point is, I'm not sure how much I'll be writing the next two weeks. That doesn't mean I won't try, I'm just not making any promises. Thanks for understanding.**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


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